


you proved its point

by orphan_account



Category: Persona 3
Genre: M/M, Violence, an au where akihiko faces shinji's shadow and is mocked by him
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-22
Updated: 2014-05-22
Packaged: 2018-01-26 03:56:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,394
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1673792
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Emperor card is about control, leadership, absolute power and benevolence. Yet, when reverse, he struggles to retain the rule of the throne--he is pulled from his position and thrown to the ground, disgrace scraping limbs and cloak for each second spent on his knees.</p><p>Maybe he's proving this abomination right. It's not Shinjiro, he convinces himself, but that distorted voice rings something familiar with each draw of vowels past his mouth.</p>
            </blockquote>





	you proved its point

It comes a  _repulsive_ caricature of something once  **welcome** , from the hoarse scratch in the depths of one’s throat, the kind he always compared to a cough, _clear your throat, man_ , now something closer to  **glass** broken on linoleum floor, gravel that scrapes your knees and embeds itself into your flesh **(** _slate grey asphalt a poison in the streams of blood, swellings on knees and knuckles, you punch too hard, do you keep a tally on the bones you break, a voice none-too-compassionate that howls like stars in space_ **)**. It’s an instrument out of tune, a note that doesn’t match what reads on the music’s street, but Nero kept playing even as Rome burned and that’s what this **beast** must think of them as—he’s the victim of the fire, the boy on the pyre, hellfire dark fire as Akihiko is baptised in the ravaging flames Shinjiro would always say he’d go, mocking himself with every shallow breath he’d take in when he sat next to him, when he walked along them all, when he _could_. His tongue is  _heavy_ within his mouth, iron teeth gnashing together and grinding to  _stubs_ to prevent himself from drawing his own ragged breath in the face of this  **creature**   **(** _always taught himself never to show fear, that’s when they know when to strike, never mattered if it was mortal or shadow, it knows where you sleep and it can smell your fear_ **)**  speaking in  _his_ languid drawl, posture so stiff Akihiko wonders if he might break his back, abruptly snapping the curve of his slouch like a measurement stick.

**"It's not surprising you haven't a clue on what to say."**

And he doesn’t know what he means, instead he knows that this voice is like claws up his spine, talons scraping into the steps of bone rapidly ossifying under the caustic touch—he knows that it’s wringing his stomach like a cloth, that it’s all but an outside force, it can’t possibly be him, he had to hear about  **him**  dropping before the  _young one_ they  **lug** around **(** _akihiko heard how his body collapsed, how he sacrificed himself for an ungrateful soul that lost the chance to demonstrate gratitude once warmth left the fresh cadaver—spartans used to say you get a burial if you die in battle, shinjiro used to say you get a burial if you die in battle, dangerous philosophy to hold in your heart thought the emperor_ **)**. Because he  _left them_ and he  _lost_ to a wound piercing his clavicle, he couldn’t  **possibly** have fears and anxieties left behind like some spirit that could not depart from their life just  _yet_.

 **“You don’t think, after all.”** A tepid _sigh_ past jaundiced teeth, a smile at his behest. **“And nothing ever happens when _you_ have to _think_. You just pull your fist back, and hit it harder. That should solve the problem.”**

—because dead men are supposed to stay dead but this one haunts him; he retreats for months at a time and then finds a way to ensnare him in periods of grief, gripping the pulsating organ within his chest’s cavity and  _clenching_  with the ferocity of a predator clamping teeth around the meat and bone of fallen prey. By God he misses him, and he’s done better, _Lord Almighty_ how he’s done better, but the past has a terrible habit of coming to you in mirrors and filthy bath water and certain streets you used to walk down. He stares down Shinjiro Aragaki’s calcified corpse, sullen and rotten and with eyes in the most rich topaz he’s ever seen, it’s what possessed Labrys and that  _thing_ that dared once to mock him with his own form.  The words spoken now are exactly what he heard before, but that  **hateful**  tone utters  **old** syllables on his grey tongue, wearing a grin one would _cut from ear to ear_ to receive—

 **"Why are you so _startled_?" ** his drawl is  _languid_ and mimics something soothing, mellifluous tonality like sweet drinks toxic with arsenic—he’s  **MOCKING** him with that sugar-saccharine kindness, the distant yet  _caring_ reflection Akihiko knew Shinjiro to be capable of pulling itself from this caricature like Aztec sacrifices, hearts ripped from chests in displays of **gore** and  **meat** for  _all_ to see. It’s the twisting of tendons, the tearing of ribs—agate bones  _breaking_ under his  _unmerciful_ wrenching of the cage’s front. With each careful enunciation of his words,  _parodizing_ that slurring tone  **(** _that’s all he is, a parody, a satire, shinjiro doesn’t twist his words like damascus knives between shoulder blades, tearing him down like caligula, I AM STILL ALIVE_ **)**  once carried on charcoal lungs, Akihiko feels his limbs grow  _heavy,_ and how he wants to lower himself on all fours, regain  _consciousness_ , for he sees static in his vision and a pressure behind his eyes—he’s unsure if it’s vertigo or despair. **“What's that spiel you play? That dramatic bullshit you say you hold close? Something about leadership and admitting your faults?""**

It’s a click of the tongue to follow—distorted tone tearing apart his throat, it’s the roar of an engine and thermonuclear explosions, something  _caustic_ and something  _terrible_ , it’s a vocal baptism of fire and acid. **"Or is that reserved for others -- so you alone can put yourself above them? Chastise them, make them remember what burns their guts and what pushes the nails farther in?"  
**

He tries, he tries so  _god damn_ hard to make a noise, but it’s the shock of Aragaki standing, the horrific distortion to a voice once welcome, and the terror and  _TRUTH_  of what he says that petrifies him, weak kneed and arms hanging limp, strength  _barely_  holding his jaw together so to not stand slack. And the damning speech  _continues_ , relentless and merciless, and Akihiko is certain that it’d be a fire axe lodged down his torso had Shinjiro been  _armed_ —it doesn’t strike him that his  _friend’s_  Shadow would waste time speaking if it could choose  _otherwise_ —it’d have him a  **sacrifice** to the unholy  _gods_ it must derive from, part-ichor blood spilt in the name of  **redemption. "You're nothing like a leader. You're a _kid_."**

"Enough—" comes  _dry_ delivery, his voice is stale, he tastes both bile and iron on his tongue—and his jaw starts to chatter, and his eyes start to water, it takes too much out of him to not start his  _pathetic_  sobbing to form anything vigorous or strong. It isn’t when he faced down that  _mimicry_ of himself, where it stood behind Labrys and taunted him with the same words Shinjiro does now. Mitsuru spoke that youths may deny these proclamations as it hurts to hear yourself confess it—Akihiko now argues it’s  _worse_ to hear a  **corpse** speak it, puppeteered by some repulsive force, a rift in time and dominion, like some  **monster** from the  _depths_ of space. "Enough with——he never _thought of me_ like this—”

 **"What are you talking about?"** comes a bitter snarl, delivered in a feral  _growl_ along with virulent breath, a mimicry of the pestilence to follow nicotine and tar  **(** _yet it is something worse, something more sour, something more corrupt, the depths of aragaki’s memory coming to life in a three year old corpse_ **)**   **"What 'he' thought about? — What _I_ thought about, because," ** he continues further, neck rolling rightward and giving an audible  _crack_ that sounds near painful  **(** _akihiko tries to think, what if it gave him the wound, what if i pull down his collar and see where it pierced him, what if i pry that bullet out, what if it’s poisoning him and i get that lead out of him_ **)**   **"What I think—is that you talk _down_  so you can be  _higher_ , a try hard on his  _throne_ , demanind respect and not  _earning_ it. Resort to your fists, because that's all you have and all you've used—and you're pissed nobody  takes a two-fisted shit seriously!"  
**

He feels the hot tears before there’s anything remotely resembling a heave, face flushing a cardinal red in the wake of the brutal words to follow—for there is both terror and  _rage_ defining his tears, teeth  **clenching**  in such a way he fears dentine might shatter beneath the titanium pressure he applies to his jaw. There is  **wrath**  stirring within, a rapidly decreasing timebomb counting its final seconds down, nuclear holocausts waiting in his lungs and veins to erupt, to  _destroy_ , to cause  **destruction** for those  _foolish_ to stand in the Emperor’s way as anger consumes him. It is  _insult_  that reaches him, damning his heart and damning his person. It is not  _incorrect_ to protect one’s self, one’s  _honour_ , in the face of adversity—this  **thing before him** dares to _insult_ him and declare it  _unjust_ to act accordingly,  **daring** to claim the visage of one fallen, disrespecting his person and his stature, all that Shinjiro once  _was_ to mock Akihiko—

**"Enough of that hopeful _bullshit._ There's nothing left to say, Aki."**

The  **SNAPPING**  of his final cord comes, and it’s a savage **ROAR** at the top of his pristine,  _DIVINE_ lungs as his limbs break their ossified state and  **CHARGE** , heavy and  _loud_ footsteps breaking the tension and silence as one might glass underfoot, the fists wrapped in a black tape clenching and  _raising_ to match his head height, hunching forward in his  _feral sweep_ towards this  _CREATION_ that chooses to threaten him. It is not  _holy_ , it is not  _welcome_ , it is a **blight** that brings harm to what Akihiko once found  _pure_ and  _of home_ —his carnal  **roar**  tears apart language, vocal cords barely forming the ferocious, barbaric, violent—

_"YOU'RE NOT HIM!"_

for he **DARED** to use the _Emperor's_ old name in  _false_  tones, the mimicry of  _kindness, warmth_ and  _devotion_ following brutal abuse, degrading that which Akihiko stands for, stands  _as_ , all that he has become, all that he has recovered—it is an **INSULT** to speak to him in such a way, degrading both memories and present actions. Scars once torn have  _healed_ , and to ever step before his mighty self and utter  _those three letters_ shall face a certain demise. In those large,  _quick_ steps, the apparition hasn’t the time to avoid the  **STRIKE** , Akihiko’s fist making a direct contact with his jawline, feeling the  _ssatsifying_   **CRUNCH** of bone meeting bone, the  _snapping_ of skull’s structure and a painful, deserving  _screech_ from the hollow lungs of he who  _claims_ to be Shinjiro, presenting in  _name_ and  _appearance_ only. The boxer manages to roar once more,

_"YOU DON'T HAVE THE RIGHT TO CALL ME THAT—"_

before he rips his arm back once more and launches  _another_ strike, brutalization of the same spot—in another place, another  _victim_ , Akihiko would leave but a brutal mark as a lesson, ugly purple smearing of flesh as a  **reminder** to not cross the Emperor and his wrath. Yet, fits continue to  _strike_ , across Shinjiro’s visage, against his throat  **(** _he hears a wheezing, a wheezing he would once pause to question, now only relishing in the injury he causes this malevolent entity_ **)** , against the bullet embedded in his  _best friend’s_ chest as if his strikes could  _beat_ it out. There is not utterance of a  _true_ self, there is no declaration of  **truth** any longer—only distorted shrieks, savage roars alike to Akihiko’s own, brief  _pauses_ of the revealed illusion to return to character, the manipulative cries of a corrupt gravel  _shriek_ of a name long **b** **uried, AKI, IT'S ME,** earning more  **beatings** over his cranium, against his eyes, all Akihiko can see is the  **FLARING RED**  of blood in his vision,  **hatred** for this _MONSTER_ boiling like the seas, magmatic  _fury_ scorching his veins. Caesar takes  _pause_ in his thoughts, twisting his gaze upon the vessel’s _wrath_ flaring his thoughts, and is an  **onlooker** to the **beating** delivered by his user.

 **(** _shinjiro’s on the ground, topaz is staring up at akihiko and the boxer has forsaken the use of only his fists, he stands and brings his foot down upon his skull and body, hatred spilling from his lungs and limbs with each strike of the enemy. akihiko wants to see red, he wants to see if monsters bleed, he wants his rage quelled and he wants this creature dead for taking shinjiro from him and then trying to hang a puppet in his vision to mock his suffering, and he was doing so well these past three years, wasn't he? **)**_

And when he’s stopped he hasn’t  _claimed_ a life. There was no life in the bruised  _shell_ that disappears at his feet, fading to black and indigo smears against the stale air, dissipating like plumes of cigarette smoke from thin lips. He counts the seconds between his final  _stomp_ across Aragaki’s chest and the Shadow’s disappearance—it’s seven seconds, he counts it in his pulse, throbbing jugular from the adrenaline that made its course through his warm veins. Still he feels the  _sting_ of the Shadow’s words, sticking to his flesh and marking him, the indents of teeth along his shoulders and arms like some  _insect_ or  _animal_ tried itself again him. When he swallows, he swallows bile and blood, tongue bitten in his furious destruction of the false creature that he destroyed with his iron fists—and the flushed red face lingers, and the hot tears relive the tracks they made down his face, and he’s relieved there’s nothing in this godforsaken realm to hear him  _heave_ , sucking his teeth before releasing a hollow sound of discontent, muscular arm brought up to conceal his opal grey eyes, sclera flaring crimson with the tears that swell within. He curses himself, he curses his behaviour and actions—he hasn’t a clue if a Shadow merely manifests elsewhere, a separate form, their life cycles or their reincarnation. He hasn’t a clue and hasn’t a  _damn_ , yet the words spoken in that eldritch tone  **stay** with him, the kind of words that embed themselves into your thoughts and never quite go away—he wishes there was something or someone to lean against, and finally finds his limbs giving way as they wished to minutes ago, crashing to his knees in the spot the body once lay—and the sobbing follows, as does more tears against his gaunt cheeks, unintelligible words howling into the vacant space around him. **  
**


End file.
